


Weights, Measures

by French Army Syphilis Epidemic 1495 (nagia)



Series: A Thousand Words Of Gilead [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Handmaid's Tale Fusion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Gilead Altered To Suit Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24462235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagia/pseuds/French%20Army%20Syphilis%20Epidemic%201495
Summary: Percy walks into the Wizengamot and calls for votes against the measure.  He makes a principled, brave stand: Bellatrix Lestrange was barking mad.  Nothing could have prevented her.  She and Morgana and Nimue and Grindelwald do not set a precedent that women and confirmed bachelors and childless people are mad and dangerous.  Children are not some Midas touch of goodness, he says into a ringing silence.Three weeks later, Percy drinks a cup of tea in a staff meeting, chokes, and begins to turn to gold.
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/Fred Weasley, Angelina Johnson/George Weasley, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood
Series: A Thousand Words Of Gilead [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765822
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	Weights, Measures

**Author's Note:**

> Dead Dove: _Do Not Eat_. The last line of the summary is somebody dying. This is that kind of story. 
> 
> Is this horror or just bleakpunk? I can't tell.

Hermione has always thought that it's not that the Wizarding world is sexist, exactly. Simply old fashioned. There's no hate in it, no fear in it, in the way witchcraft is in some indefinable way different than wizardry, in the way love potions are legal, in the way there is no real equality in wages.

She thought.

It starts with Rita fucking Skeeter, because of course it does; when has Rita Skeeter been anything but a bad omen? It starts with an ill-advised biography on Bellatrix Lestrange — although _that_ only happens because Luna Lovegood takes it into her head to write a biography of Morgana, to combat her conflation with Nimue, so, _really_ , she can blame this whole Wizarding obsession with Merlin — that somehow makes it into the Daily Prophet. People read it. More people read it. All of Diagon Alley is talking about it.

All of Ottery St. Catchpole is talking about it. All of Godric's Hollow is talking about it. All of Hogsmeade is talking about it.

Everybody in Wizarding England is talking about Bellatrix Lestrange. They talk about her intense focus. They ignore the knife's edge of sanity she'd danced along — never dipping too far one way or the other, until Azkaban. Instead, they prattle on and on endlessly about her two greatest drives: to provide the Dark Lord with a child, and to secure a clean world for the next generation.

Narcissa Malfoy, at a lunch with Andromeda Tonks, makes an actual expression of specific distaste, rather than her general air of vague displeasure, when Andromeda mentions the article.

"That grasping little insect certainly never spoke to me about Bellatrix," is Narcissa Malfoy's verdict, delivered with the lofty, airy tones of a woman who is seething but too well-bred and conscious of her image to show it. She says it in a tone of 'oh how amusing,' softening the words, but Hermione listens nonetheless.

And stupid, stupid, stupid George Weasley, who almost certainly meant no harm, throws bloody whale oil on the simmering coals. Not petrol, of course, because the Wizarding world hasn't discovered petroleum as a fuel yet. Surely he meant no harm, when he said, "Lestrange? Barking mad, obviously. Not my favorite person. 'Course, with all this talk, you have to wonder who she'd have been if she ever _had_ managed a child."

What the Daily Prophet doesn't report, Ron says, is that George had immediately added, "She'd have smothered it in the cradle for being inconvenient, I expect," and he and Fred had shared a look.

Of course, it might have been Fred, and merely quoted as George. Not that it matters, because George is the second to die.

But the deaths come later. They don't come until long after Lawrence Fenwick, second assistant in the Department of Love Potion Regulation — Love! Potion! Regulation! This is a department! Which exists! In the Ministry! — says, to yet another stupid, stupid Daily Prophet reporter: 

"Oh, I think the world would have been quite a different place if Bellatrix Lestrange'd had a child. There's, whassit, you know, humors in the brain that show up after a woman is delivered. We see it all the time in the DLPR."

Lawrence Fenwick, damn him, doesn't have the decency to die.

The next thing Lawrence Fenwick says is, "You know, that really makes you think, doesn't it?"

And then he goes home and writes an editorial.

The sound that comes out of Hermione's mouth when she sees the bloody thing on the front page of the Prophet is a lot less like human speech, even really very aggravated human speech, and a lot more like Mermish. Ron actually winces and covers his ears. Ginny and Angelina join her in screaming in outrage, while Arthur looks on, confused.

Harry reads the first line of the editorial and winces. "This is the kind of thing that gets worse," he says. "Want me to say something?" He hates his fame even still, but he's willing to leverage it for her, even now. "If you want to say something, too, I can always say 'What she said.'"

"Oh, no, Harry," is Molly's instant reply. "Don't you go and dignify this nonsense with a response. It'll blow over."

Percy frowns. It's his political frown: he's thinking through the chess game, and he sees what's coming.

It's Percy who takes her aside later and asks if she can still live in the Muggle world, if she'd have everything she needed if she left. "Because if this goes the way it might," he says, quiet, intense — and this is the thing that breaks her heart a year later: Percy knows how to be decisive, but he's usually so measured, so conservative — and then trails off for a moment. "Well, I don't think the Wizarding world will be a good place to live. Not for someone like you. Probably not even for someone like Penelope."

It kills her, kills her, that Percy and George are two of the first to die. Percy walks into the Wizengamot and calls for votes against the measure. He makes a principled, brave stand: Bellatrix Lestrange was barking mad. Nothing could have prevented her. She and Morgana and Nimue and Grindelwald do not set a precedent that women and confirmed bachelors and childless people are mad and dangerous. Children are not some Midas touch of goodness, he says into a ringing silence. 

Three weeks later, Percy drinks a cup of tea in a staff meeting, chokes, and begins to turn to gold.

The whole Weasley family mourns. _She_ mourns. Even Harry, who had never been especially close with him, is distraught. But Fred and George are angrier than they are sad.

"Some coward turned my brother to gold," George says to a reporter who caught him on a bad day. He's toying with one of his new joke items, a quill that dissolves into ink after about five words. "Well, what are you going to turn me into?"

The answer is a corpse, of course.

The measure passes.

Ron goes to re-register their marriage. Ginny and Harry follow him to the Ministry, filing a certificate on the very same day. Fred and Angelina — united in their grief and refusing to listen to the rumors — are in line right behind them. Neville and Luna. Penelope Clearwater and a man Harry and Ron don't know.

Then another measure passes; just being married isn't enough. Ginny throws something. Molly's face turns white with fury. Andromeda's expression darkens into rage, and beside her, Sirius's sharp features twist.

Hermione feels nothing. Marriage was never going to be enough.

Ron has his flaws, but Molly raised him right, she thinks, as they wait in the next line. He holds her hand and keeps his head high when it's their turn.

"Married how long?" asks a bored mediwizard. There are no mediwitches on the staff, Hermione can't help noticing. Not even a receptionist. And when was the last time she saw an article or an editorial by a woman?

She's woolgathering. Ron is the one to answer. "Six months," he says, crisply. Untrue — three years — but the old one doesn't count, after all.

The mediwizard gives a tired nod. "You two have time. Sure you want to do this now?"

Hermione sighs. "Might as well, right?"

The mediwizard just aims his wand at her pelvis and mumbles some dog Latin. The tip of his wand lights up green and a small, faint chime sounds from somewhere above them.

"Congratulations, your marriage will remain on record," the mediwizard says, bored. "All done." They shuffle away, and he yells, "Next!"

They're all too attentive — too bored, really — to be surprised when the next measure passes. At least, she and Ginny and Angelina aren't. It takes Ron and Harry and Molly by the throat. Ron and Arthur look poleaxed, while Harry's expression turns sick.

Molly turns to Arthur and asks, "We don't really need that, do we, dear?"

He's kind enough to lie to her, even though she has to know the answer is yes.

It's around this time that Hermione thinks to wonder what happened to Narcissa. But there isn't time to find out.

For the next appointment, they each go alone. It's not that Ron wouldn't come with her if he could — but he was here last month, for the paperwork. And the appointments today are unaccompanied to prevent tampering, the signs with Lawrence Fenwick's smug, grinning face on them inform her. Every clinic certified and inspected by Minister Fenwick or Deputy Minister Carolus Underwood.

She hands in her wand to be weighed and catalogued. They at least do her the courtesy of pretending to give it back. It's warm and alive in her hands, and she holds it for a solid minute, but then the wand weigher clears his throat. She slides it into the wooden case Bill carved for her, then tucks the case into her purse. The man behind the desk eyes her for another moment, eyes lingering on her face like he's trying to place her. She doesn't blame him; Hermione barely recognizes herself these days.

"Looking a little thin, my duck," he says, like it's any of his business. Like she hasn't gained five pounds from the sheer fucking boredom and inactivity. What he really means, of course, is, _You don't look pregnant enough._

The timer goes off. Her hour to prove she isn't Ron or Harry in polyjuice is up.

"DLPR certified, Mrs. Weasley," says a mediwizard with a kindly smile. It makes his round cheeks dimple, and his voice is so warm, but his eyes are disinterested. "Tuned to your husband of legal record."

"I won't be bored anymore, right?" Her voice comes out hoarse. It's the first thing she's said all day.

"No, love," says the mediwizard. "Drink up."

When she puts the glass goblet back down, she feels dizzy and lightheaded. It's a weirdly nice feeling. And the potion didn't taste so bad. This is awful, she knows this is awful, but it feels distant and vague, like it's happening to someone else.

She wants to tell Ron. She needs to go see him.

"See you next month, Mrs. Weasley," the mediwizard says.


End file.
